


Those Hands Pulled Me

by lamella



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: I have no idea what to tag this I just saw art and went feral, M/M, Post-MAG158, kisses save you from the lonely right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 18:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamella/pseuds/lamella
Summary: The Archivist is made to follow information, take in the fears and process them and lay claim. He is better at it than anything else, simply by being what he is, but the Lonely resists being Known.Of course, Jon has molded himself into something that will follow  Martin much further than Forsaken.





	Those Hands Pulled Me

The Archivist is made to follow information, take in the fears and process them and lay claim. He is better at it than anything else, simply by being what he is, but the Lonely resists being Known.

Of course, Jon has molded himself into something that will followMartin much further than Forsaken.

It’s nothing more than a deep breath through his terror and a step forwards, and Elias and the institute dissolve into the blank mist.

The Lonely presses in on him like it wants to swallow him, although it already has. The fog and the chill bite deep into his bones, the harsh prickle of ice already at his nose and fingertips.

Martin does not shine like a beacon, or a shelter in the storm. But Jon can follow him, Knows which eddies in the fog come from his anchor, and he follows them.

It’s hours of not-quite-wandering, navigating through this place with nothing to follow but the swirling impressions of Martin’s path through the hungry mist and the wrenching pull in his chest. Jon recalls pictures of deep-sea fishing hooks, massive, vicious things that dig in deep and cannot be easily torn out. He thinks having one of those punched through his sternum would feel about the same as the force dragging him deeper into the Forsaken.

The hollow, raw feeling inside his chest is the same as when his grandmother died and he was left with nobody in the world. Like someone tore his lungs and heart out through his throat and scrubbed out the rest of his chest with steel wool, only now he things the fog might actually be eating away at his lungs. His fingertips are certainly paler, and he can’t feel them properly, although that might just be the cold.

(The flood behind the door, the one he opened for Martin, only for Martin, tells him that it’s not just the cold. That’s still alright.)

He still walks forwards. There is no out, no path that will lead him out of Forsaken through the fog, only deeper in. But Martin is deeper in, so he keeps moving. His new body can keep him going for weeks, years even, and there is nothing so persistent as a pursuit predator. Both his monstrous and human heritage tell him to walk until Martin can no longer evade him.

It could have been half a day or three before he sees a shadow in the mist. He calls out, but it’s muffled, choked out before it can leave his throat.

The Archivist, because the words that are coming out of his mouth hold far too much power to be Jon alone, calls out, _“Wait.”_

And the fog lifts, just enough to see Martin’s shoulders stiffen, and Jon’s moving forwards as fast as he can in his exhaustion.

“Martin, wait.”

And Martin turns, looking drawn and as exhausted as Jon feels, eyes stubborn and jaw set. Jon reaches a hand out to him, mouth opening to say something, but he can’t pull any words out of the desperate jumble in his head, so he just stands there for a moment before letting his arm drop back to his side.

Martin’s face softens into something familiar and sad, the same look Jon’s seen from him a hundred times while he grieved for and with what they could have been, together.

“Martin. Please.”

After a too-long beat, Martin takes one step forwards, then two, closing the distance between them. He sighs, and the moisture from his breath forms a cloud in the cold air, fading into the fog. “Oh, Jon.”

The hand that comes up to brush Jon’s hair out of his face is gentle and cool. “You look exhausted…” Martin murmurs, carefully tucking a loose curl behind his ear.

His hand comes to Jon’s cheek like an afterthought, so light it almost tickles, and Jon can’t help but rest his own hand on Martin’s and push his face closer into the touch, the near-painful warmth of skin-on-skin. The adrenaline and desperation flood out of him all at once, leaving him too tired to do anything but ache, scrubbed-out chest hosting something hopeful and too-hot, choking him when he takes in a deep, shuddering breath. Martin is alright, and relief crowds out the ice that’s settled into his bones.

“I was so,” Deep breath. Press his hand against your face. Try again. “I was so worried.”

Martin inhales, sharp and shaking, and says his name like its a prayer or a promise.

Jon opens his eyes slowly, like if he moves too fast Martin might startle away and disappear into the mist. There are tears in his eyes, and Jon moves his hand to brush one gently off of Martin’s cheek with his thumb. His skin is soft and warm against his scarred palm. There’s the subtle, sharp prickle of stubble where he still has enough nerves left to feel it. He strokes his thumb across Martin’s cheek again, just to touch him. The flush that’s rising on his face makes him even warmer in the cold, empty space around him.

It’s not until their faces are mere inches away that Jon realizes they’ve both been leaning in. His mouth opens in a soft, “Oh,” and then they’re kissing.

Martin’s lips are soft against his, although a little chapped. He tastes like nothing in particular, but his hand is gentle on Jon’s face and his jaw is moving slowly, and whatever sits in Jon’s chest unfurls wide and engulfs him and he can’t help but to bring his other hand up to cradle Martin’s neck, thumb stroking over the soft, fine hair under his ear and heel of his palm resting over Martin’s strong, steady pulse.

He laughs into Jon’s mouth, a quiet little huff, and then he’s stepping in and pulling his face even closer, until they’re standing in the same space and Martin is letting Jon press himself into his warm bulk and shake with relief and exhaustion and Jon is letting Martin lean on him and hold someone close for the first time in years.

Even long after they’ve stopped kissing, they stand like that, and Jon buries his face into Martin’s shoulder. His soft yellow sweater muffles the words when he asks, “Come back with me. Please.”

“Of course, Jon.” Martin pulls away and smiles at him, shaky but honest.

The fog around them does not seem so dense, the white mist shrinking away to form a little pocket of safety in the Forsaken.

“Of course I’ll follow you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I saw some art by Alex (crashsfx on tumblr) and. Well. This happened.
> 
> I will admit this is totally unedited, so if there's a grammar or spelling mistake please point it out to me.


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